


The Reichenbach Legacy

by StarkRogers



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:51:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkRogers/pseuds/StarkRogers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Copyright: This is an original work of fiction. Sherlock Holmes is public domain, making this piece of work legally mine. You may not reproduce or publish this work on any site or in any journal or any other form of media without my permission. </p><p> </p><p>Homes has been kidnapped (again...) but this time, so had Watson! Can they escape? Can Scotland Yard find them in time? Not if they are too busy dealing with finding one of their own who has also been taken. </p><p>The plans of Colonel Sebastian Moran have come to fruition! He will finally have revenge for Reichenbach!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reichenbach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tabbystardust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabbystardust/gifts).



> I'm doing something different with this fic. There will be a chapter later on with non-con, however that chapter is optional. You can skip it entirely! That way, people who don't like non-con can still read the rest of this awesome case-fic. I'll let you know when we're getting to the non-con chapter. Everything else is pretty much gen!

_My hands, ragged and numb from climbing down the sheer cliff wall, reached into the icy stream and wrapped tightly around thick black wool. I tugged, and his water-logged body floated into the shallows and into my lap. Cold and exhausted I knew I would not be able to carry him back out of the ravine on my own. I sat in the frigid water and cradled his head in my arms. The only heat in the cold, dark night came from the rage slowly building inside my chest. Eventually even that could not warm me, and I knew I had to let him go. I could not help myself reaching a hand into his pocket and retrieving a token to remember him by. My fingers clumsily closed around something hard, and I withdrew it. It was his notebook! His precious notebook - I opened it, careful not to rip the sodden pages. The ink was bleeding through the pages, but it was clear enough to see that this was NOT my Master's notebook. Fury flared inside me once more as I realized this was a falsehood, switched out by our enemy. All of his precious work would be undone… I nearly tore the notebook in half as anger overcame me. After a few minutes I calmed myself, turning blinding hot anger into cold, calculating rage. I would avenge my Master. As I let go of his body and watched it drift down the rapids, I had only one thought._

_I would kill Sherlock Holmes._

~*~

From the private journals of John H. Watson:

Nearly four years has passed since the death of Professor Moriarty. Today is in fact the anniversary of his death. It is also the one-year anniversary of the return of my dear companion, Sherlock Holmes. To say his return was eventful is to understate the commotion that occurred. But that adventure is well published in The Strand (see: The Empty House); furthermore this is my personal journal, so I shall not bother recounting the tale. My only regret is that we were unable to capture his loyal marksman, Moran, nor bring him to justice for the crimes he committed during Moriarty's rise to power. He escaped after making an attempt on Holmes’ life the same day he returned. We have heard nothing of him since. 

Still, over all it has been a splendid year with Holmes back by my side. I was grieving the death of my beloved wife Mary to pneumonia, so his return came at an important time. To say our friendship has been strengthened is again an understatement. Often, I find myself thinking…

~*~

“Watson!” Holmes' voice rings out from the sitting room. “Are we to attend the opera tonight, or are you going to spend the evening brooding in your journal?”

Watson sighs and blots the page dry before closing the journal. He clears away the desk, putting away his writing utensils and tucking away the journal in a drawer. He pulls his scarf off the back of the chair and joins Holmes in the sitting room. The remains of a warm fire are burning low in the fireplace, nothing more than embers glowing dimly amongst the ashes. The room is, as always, a collection of trinkets and tools arranged in a sort of controlled chaos. Papers are scattered about every surface, including the coffee table, upon which rests the tea tray from earlier that afternoon. Watson wonders fondly how Holmes ever managed to survive three years without him around to help tidy things up.

“Of course not Holmes,” Watson replies. “I just had a few thoughts I needed to write down to clear my mind.” He slips on his jacket as he speaks. Holmes is already dressed for the evening out, looking for once like a proper gentleman in a black tailcoat with white gloves. The look is befitting of him, though it reminds Watson of the suit he wore the night he fell at Reichenbach. What a terrible night that had been… a great evil had been thwarted, but at a great price, or so everyone had thought.

“You have the terrible, introspective nature of a poet,” Holmes replies grandiosely, interrupting Watson’s thoughts and offering his hands as if in prayer. 

“And you have the nature of a sloth,” Watson replies scathingly, washing the memories from his mind. Tonight was meant to be a celebration, not a reliving of past traumas. He glares at Holmes, who in turn appears to be trying to look offended, and failing. 

“I believe you are severely underestimating the tenacious nature of the sloth,” Holmes begins, but Watson cuts him off, pointing a finger at him.

“We are not arguing before we even make it to The Royale. I demand a proper dinner at least.” That said, Watson slips past Holmes and makes his way downstairs, his feet thudding hollowly on the steps. Holmes follows, and though he makes no overt sign that he will cooperate he doesn't press the argument, either.

They trudge out into the chilly December air, the street lamps already lit and casting their warm yellow glow down on the streets about them. The shops and houses are decorated for Christmas with glowing candles in the windows and fresh evergreen wreaths on the doors. Even 221B has a sprig of holly hanging on the door, tacked there surreptitiously by Mrs. Hudson. Despite the crisp chill in the air it is a fine evening to be out, and many Londoners seem to be bustling about buying last-minute gifts for the holiday. Warmly lit store windows beckon with glittering wares and the heavenly scent of holiday foods.

The cab ride to The Royale is pleasant, and they fill the time conversation, alternating with companionable periods of silence. A gentle fall of snow has begun as they enter the restaurant, filling the evening with a quiet peace. Dinner is no less enjoyable, and soon they are making their way arm-in-arm down the patron-packed street to the opera house, the fresh snow squeaking beneath their shoes. 

The pair pass by a sweet shoppe and a toy store, both of which tempt passer-byes with brightly colored displays. Several children have their noses pressed to the frosty glass of the toy shop, ogling the tricycles and dolls. Watson feels a momentary longing, imagining the child he and Mary might have had together. They could have been three years old by now, just tall enough to see if lifted by one of the older children. 

Perhaps it is the slight slowing of Watson's pace that Holmes notices, for he slows as well. They come to a halt in front of the toy store. Holmes tightens his hand around Watson's elbow in a comforting gesture, and Watson reaches over, patting his hand in return. A few moments later the parents of the children come out of the sweet shoppe, laden down with treats. The children squeal with joy, each clamoring for their favorite candy as the family heads off into the chilly evening. 

As they waited, a carriage pulled up in front of the shops, and several men opened the back doors. Now from within the alley leading to the back entrance to the sweet shoppe comes a polite - if clipped - request.

“Excuse me, gents, you're in the way.”

Watson and Holmes turn to see a short, stocky man carrying a crate out of the alley. There are several other men farther back, pulling out more crates.

“Cakes to deliver,” the man explains, pushing past them and handing the crate to the men in the back of the carriage. Watson quickly takes a few steps out of the way.

“No, excuse me. Quite late to be making a delivery,” Watson notes, as another man slips into the alley. Suddenly Holmes takes hold of Watson's elbow again and tries to pull him away from the alley, but there is a scuffle of quick feet and Watson feels something hard pressing against his lower back. It is unmistakably the barrel of a gun.

"Wouldn't move if I was you," the short man says from behind Watson. One look at Holmes out of the corner of his eye confirms that he too must have a gun digging into his spine, for he has frozen in place, his face as expressionless as stone. 

"If your business is illegal, you have chosen the wrong man to threaten," Holmes says quietly. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and-"

"We knows who you is," another man says. He is taller than the first, and missing several of his front teeth. While the short man could pass as an employee of the sweet shoppe, this man is obviously from rougher parts of town. "Tha's the point, actually," the toothless man adds gleefully. 

"You're going to get in the carriage and you ain't gonna make a fuss, or I'll shoot Doctor Watson," says the short man, "and then drag you into the carriage, leaving the doctor here alone to bleed to death on the sidewalk."

Having no other option, Holmes nods and lets the men lead Watson and himself into the back of the carriage. The rest of the men pile in, training more guns on Holmes and Watson to ensure that they do not, in fact, cause a fuss. The carriage jerks into motion immediately, carrying them away. Cramped into the back with so many other bodies, there is very little room to move. The kidnappers use this to their advantage, holding down first Holmes and then Watson, lashing their feet together and tying their hands behind their backs with rough hemp rope. Other than this, however, the men do them no harm. They also do not speak to them. 

The journey is not a comfortable one, bumping and jostling along, laying on their sides on the floor of the carriage. Combined with the sickly sweet smell wafting from the crates, the ride is in fact slightly nauseating. Watson is the first to speak, annoyance in his voice.

"I simply cannot have a nice, normal evening out with you, can I?" he says with a huff, rolling away from Holmes until their hands are touching. He starts working at the ropes around Holmes' wrists. Holmes catches on immediately, and twists his torso around slightly to both look at Watson, and simultaneously hide Watson's efforts from the watchful eyes of the men. 

"It would seem this is the case, though I daresay you cannot blame me for this particular incident."

"Oh I'm sure if I did some digging I could find some reason to blame this mess on you," Watson replies hotly, tugging on the knot, growing frustrated as it fails to come undone. Holmes' hands shift slightly and reach up, wrapping around Watson's own, squeezing them gently. Watson calms, and he is about to resume his efforts when the toothless man nudges him with his foot.

"Ge' away from each otha' now, no funny business."

Discouraged, Watson pulls away. They ride on in silence as Watson frets and worries. He tries to guess where they are headed based on the turns the carriage takes, but he is lost almost immediately. Eventually he gives up, and puts his faith in Holmes to figure a way out of this predicament.


	2. Scotland Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is gen; there are no warnings.

_For three years after my Master’s death I chased Holmes, forcing him to remain in hiding, separated from his allies and all those who could have helped him. It was a harrowing game of cat and mouse, and several times I came quite close to ending him, but he was always just out of my reach. At last, after three years of running, I had him cornered in London. I had him in my sights, I fired the killing shot. But alas! He was once again too clever for me. So powerful was my anger that I risked my own capture to see him face-to-face before slipping away once more into the underground. And so I waited and plotted this whole year long, created a plan even more air-tight, one that he could not possibly escape from. And this time I had wisely included his companion John Watson in my plans. Not accounting for him was a mistake I would only make once. This time, I would have him._

~*~

The holidays have come to Scotland Yard as well, frosting the stone steps outside with slick ice and snow, and draping the doors inside with wreathes and paper garlands. The Yard is at half-staff this weekend, the halls quiet as many officers spend time at home with their families. Those men who are still on watch exchange simple gifts with one another, and many of their desks are piled high with presents from citizens who have over the past year received help from the Yard. Thus, when a postman arrives with a package addressed to Detective Inspector Lestrade, it rouses no suspicion. The package requires a signature upon delivery, and so Lestrade is sent for.

Lestrade is still in his office, filling out a bit of old paper work. Snowdrifts fill the corners of his window. A small fire crackles in the fireplace – being an Inspector did have its advantages, such as warmth. This unfortunately meant that during the winter months, on chilly evenings just like this, he was very popular with the junior officers, who would find any reason they could to drop in and warm up a bit. Because of this, he'd gotten very little work done over the afternoon. He even sent home the recently promoted Lieutenant Clark to be with his wife and their new daughter earlier that day, both to get the man out of his office so he could do some work and as a Christmas present to the man. Now late into the evening he finds his zeal for work has faded. He spends several minutes staring at a request form and blinking wearily, incapable of absorbing the information written on it. When one of his constables comes to fetch him it is a welcome distraction. He stands and stretches, making his way lazily up to the front desk to sign for the package.

“Wonder who it's from.” He can't possibly remember every case he's helped solve this year, so he expects to be pleasantly surprised by whomever sent it. He signs on the postman's form, and the man slips out the door. Curiosity getting the better of him, Lestrade slips the unmarked envelope from under the twine binding the package and opens it. Inside is a small piece of paper, folded once, and it reads simply, “Open immediately upon delivery”. A small crowd of officers have gathered about Lestrade now; this mystery package is the most exciting thing that has happened all night. 

A frown creases Lestrade's brow as he lays the note down on the desk. He cuts away the twine with a letter opener, and pulls away the brown paper from the package. His eyes widen in surprise for a long moment at what he sees. Inside, the pages crinkled, the leather cover warped from water damage, is a notebook that Lestrade instantly recognizes.

“Moriarty's notebook?” Lestrade hisses to himself, flipping it open quickly. It is immediately obvious that this is not in fact the original notebook; even with water damage leaving the ink blurred on the pages, he can tell that nothing had been written on most of them. There are the remnants of drawings, perhaps, but he cannot make them out. Either way, it is clearly not Moriarty's real notebook, but rather a facsimile made to look like the original. He suspects it is the very copy that Sherlock Holmes slipped into Moriarty's pocket when stealing the original. Lestrade had thought this copy lost when the Professor's body fell to the bottom of the falls at Reichenbach. Obviously someone had found it, and carefully dried it out. 

Lestrade flips back to the first page of the notebook, and finds a fresh message there. He doesn't need Holmes' skill to deduce this; the ink is dark, and the facing page has blots on it from when the writer had closed the notebook before the ink had fully dried. Not only that, but the ink is un-blurred, which meant again it had been written after the notebook was found and dried. But who would go to such effort to preserve the notebook and carry it around like a memento for four years, only to give it away now? With nothing left to learn from the notebook itself, Lestrade finally turns to the first page again, and reads the message out loud:

_Detective Inspector Lestrade,_

_It has been many years since the death of my Master. A lesser man would perhaps have given up on vengeance by now. But I am a hunter, and a skilled hunter knows sometimes he must stalk his prey for a long time, until the prey grows weary and lets down its guard. And sometimes too, a hunter may fail to hit his mark on the first try, as I failed to kill Mister Sherlock Holmes a year ago._

_But now my trap is complete; you will find it has already sprung by the time you receive this. Do not think I am writing this to give you some foolish chance of rescuing Mr. Holmes and his Doctor. No; my revenge against them is set. And yet, this letter is not purely to gloat either. For Sherlock Holmes did not work alone. The Yard also had a hand in the fall of my Master's empire, by destroying his vision of a grand, profitable war. I vow that the world will have Moriarty's war, and your man must be punished. The solution to both problems is elegant: to place your man at the epicenter of a bomb set to blow in a few hours. The opera house will be full by then, you see. They are showing Don Giovanni tonight, and several foreign dignitaries are in attendance. Consider it a personal joke._

_This letter is simply to inform you that I have taken Constable Clark, so he may pay for his sins. I know you are undermanned tonight. Do not think you can stop my plans. Constable Clark, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson must die. When all is finished, you will find me at my old home. I will be happy to cede at the end of this chase, for my work will be complete. The world will have Moriarty's war, and I will be at peace.  
~Col. Sebastian Moran_

A horrified, hushed silence had fallen over the lobby as Lestrade read the letter. Now he sets the notebook down, trying to hide how his hand is shaking. He looks up at the crowd of officers around and speaks, his voice tight. 

“Has anyone seen Constable Clark?” Lestrade asks, desperately hoping that perhaps the man had lingered about the offices despite the order to go home. The officers shake their heads and Lestrade's heart plummets. “Send someone by his house immediately. If he isn't there, bring in his wife and daughter. And send a constable to Mr. Holmes' place as well. If Mrs. Hudson is still there, bring her in too – I don't care how hard she protests! Hopkins, put on some tea for them when they get here.”

Lestrade turns and starts marching down the hall towards his office, the notebook clutched in his hands. He spins to look back at the stunned officers. “Get to work on figuring out which theater is showing Don Giovanni, and get men down there right now!” He points to Gregson, who for once doesn't seem to want to contradict the Inspector. “Get me everything we have on Colonel Sebastian Moran. In my office in five minutes.” Then he storms down the hall and slams the door to his office.

Once inside, he gives himself a few moments of panic. He sinks down into his chair, his head in his hands. Good god... Clark... The man had Clark! They have to find him – they WILL find him. They will find Clark, and Holmes and Watson too. No one will die tonight. 

A few minutes later and Lestrade has collected himself. Gregson comes in with several boxes full of information, and together the Inspectors pour over it, looking for his home address firstly. Lestrade will send men there right now to watch for Moran, and perhaps to find clues as to where he has taken Holmes and Watson. After a few more minutes pass, and Inspector Forsythe knocks on the door. 

“We've found out where they're showing Don Giovanni. I've as many men collected as I can, and the mariah is ready. Are you coming, sir?”

Forsythe might been new, but Lestrade gives him credit for knowing Lestrade wants to come. He nods and stands. “Yes, I'm coming. Gregson, lead the team going to Moran's house. Forsythe and I will take on the opera house. It'll need to be evacuated until we can determine where the bomb is, if there even is one.” He hasn't ruled out the idea that this is all a ruse by Moran to take them off the search for Holmes and Watson. Gregson nods, and picks up the evidence box. 

“Aye, I'll handle it. You go fetch Clarky, sir.”

Lestrade gives Gregson a tight smile. “I will.”

The mariah is loaded up quickly, and they rattle away immediately. Everyone is tight-lipped as they weave through the icy streets. No one likes to have one of their own taken, and the shock of a policeman being snatched away is particularly rattling. Everyone likes Clark; his work is unparalleled, and he's one of the few officers whom Sherlock Holmes can stand working with one-on-one. Lestrade is quite sure that taking Constable Clark is the last thing Colonel Moran will do. 

They stop the mariah a half block away from the opera house, because strangely there is already a large group of people streaming away from the front doors. Lestrade hops out of the mariah and turns towards the opera house. He barely makes it a few steps when there is a sudden flash of light, and an instant later a shockwave stuns him, bringing with it the cracking roar of and explosion. Lestrade pulls his head out of his arms in shock, staring at the burning husk of the opera house. People are now screaming and running through the streets, but Lestrade's men are on the job, controlling them and calming them down. 

“Oh God, Clark...” 

Scraps of paper and ash drift down from the sky, blackening the snow around his feet. He cannot move. His gaze is fixated on the burning building. Knowing that Clark was inside it, and that he had been unable to stop it, has rooted him in place. Even the noise of the crowd has grown dim; all he can hear is the crackling of the fire. 

It seems like hours or perhaps days have gone by before a constable steps up beside Lestrade, and breathlessly presses a telegram into his hand.

“For you sir – arrived at the Yard just after you left,” the constable pants, trying to catch his breath. Lestrade numbly looks down and unfolds the piece of paper. His jaw drops as he reads it, and he spins on his heel. There is a grim expression on his face, his dark eyes alight with energy. He shoves the telegram into his pocket, and propels himself into action, stepping up to join the rest of his officers.

“Get this crowd under control! Take down names for questioning later! Jameson, call for cabs to take these people home! Forsythe, you're in command here. Mickleson, Williams, with me!” The two constables step out of the group and follow Lestrade. He steps up to the mariah, handing the telegram to the driver. “Take us here.” He slips into the back with the two constables, and the mariah pulls away from the chaos, rattling off into the night.


End file.
